Buried Alive
by EstrellaQueAdmiro
Summary: Twelve year old Sam has been buried alive by his own father as part of his training to become a hunter, but Dean isn't so sure his brother can hack it. Teen!Chester one-shot.


Sam couldn't breathe. He was in complete darkness, almost complete silence beside the sound of his father and brother talking from above ground.

_Don't panic, _the youngest Winchester repeated in his head over and over, _you can get out of this._

He pushed against the old wood of the casket to no avail, it didn't even budge. Breaths purposely slow but shaking violently, Sam promised himself he wouldn't panic.

Dean, however, wasn't so calm. His little brother was only just twelve, he was still afraid of the dark, even if he wouldn't admit it. And their father was putting him through this.

At least Sam wasn't having to do this at eight as Dean had. Sam barely knew about the life then. Dean couldn't be bitter, he knew his brother was lucky to have been exposed to the life later than he had.

Sam couldn't get out. The wood wouldn't move and the air was running out in there. His movements were frantic, hitting on the wood and fighting the tears welling in his eyes. Why did he have to do this, anyway? He wasn't going to get stuck in a casket, not if he could help it. But John had insisted, and there was no getting out of it.

"Sam?" Dean knelt beside the fresh dug "grave". No movement, just the distant sound of his brother struggling. He wasn't buried that deep, but it was deep enough to suffocate him.

"Leave it, Dean," John said sternly.

"He's still a kid, he's not ready!" Dean snapped of his own accord. His father flinched, but gave his eldest a long, hard stare.

The wood finally budged a little, and Sam coughed and rubbed at his eyes as dirt got into his eyes and mouth. Any second now and he'd be covered in the stuff, he'd have to fight his way out. He was struggling for breath now, through panic and the lack of air. The boy's heart pounded in his chest as he desperately pushed at the wood.

Dean couldn't wait any longer. It was only a matter of time before his brother would pass out down there. He dug away the dirt with his hands, only to be pulled back by his father.

"He has to learn, Dean," John's voice was a low growl.

"Dean!" Sam's voice cried out from beneath the ground. Dirt was getting in his throat, his nose, his mouth, as he began to break away the wood. He couldn't see, he could only scrabble blindly above him in desperation. His head spun, his vision sparkled, his hearing muffled. The twelve year old fought feebly, but his strength was waning.

His little brother's cries for help caused Dean to shake himself free of John's grip and dug down as fast as he could until he felt a hand reaching up.

"I got you, Sammy," Dean muttered as reassuringly as he could, "I'm getting you outta there."

Before John could intervene, Dean had hauled his brother from his potential tomb, the twelve year old limp in his brother's hold.

"Sammy, Sammy!" Dean shot a glare at his father before slapping Sam across the face, causing him to gasp and choke, eyes flying open and his dirt-covered hands clutching at his big brother.

"Hey, hey, s'alright. You're alright. Take it easy," Dean ran his fingers through Sam's hair in an attempt to calm him down, but instead ended up combing the clumps of dirt caked in it.

The younger boy gasped for breath desperately as if he were still in danger of suffocation, furiously blinking away the tears in his eyes. He knew how pissed his Dad was already, crying over this wouldn't help a thing. But of his own accord he clung to his big brother as he had all those years ago. Dean didn't care about his father watching. He hugged Sam close and waited for his breathing to get back to normal.

"Did you listen to _anything_ I told you, boy?" John started in his superior voice while Sam was only just beginning to calm down.

"I-I did, sir," the youngest Winchester lowered his gaze, ashamed, "But I panicked."

"Go again," John ordered, and Sam was about to obey until Dean blocked his way.

"No. He's done," Dean stated, getting his brother onto his feet, "C'mon, Sammy."

John shook his head in frustration, but didn't have the patience to argue. It was too late anyway, Dean had worked Sam up so much that there was no way he'd be remotely calm if he tried again. Sam needed a lesson learning, that kid had been too pampered all his life, it was about time he contributed. He was too old to be looking at a gun with fear in his eyes.

Dean could sense his father's eyes boring into his back and let out a short sigh. He'd get the brunt of John's rage later. It'd be his fault, of course. But he didn't care if it meant Sam got away with it. _No one hurts my brother. _


End file.
